A Not So Happy Hetaween
by DotheDoohickey
Summary: America rounds up the countries most likely to throw away his Halloween party invitations (England, Canada, Mexico, and Puerto Rico) and drags them all to his condo in New York to ensure that they show up. Involves odd costume choices, property destruction, free-flowing liquor, gabber music, cage fights, and love. Okay, it's actually sexual harassment...God! (Might go up to M)
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note: This may or may not have basis in real life events. Also, I don't own Hetalia.**

When she first heard the thunderous footsteps sounding outside of her house, Puerto Rico's first thought was that it sounded like a series of miniature earthquakes, and her reaction was to take cover beneath her dining room table, arms over her head, and pray that her shaky foundation wouldn't fail her. Upon hearing the successive chiming of her doorbell as a finger repeatedly stabbed it and the loud, familiar voice of America shouting that he'd come for his monthly visit, Puerto Rico's next, not unjustified reaction was to utter a cry of "Even worse!", run into the nearest cupboard, knees pulled up to her chest, and weep at the thought of the massive property damage that she'd soon be suffering.

Unfortunately, America was not the sort of man to be deterred by something as arbitrary as a door, and promptly whacked it down with a single well-placed knock if the sound of splintering wood was any indication. Shuddering, the tiny island curled up into as small and compact a ball as possible, as if to ward off his impending arrival.

It was no use. The door of the cupboard was flung open, and against the glow of artificial light that came streaming in was America, tall and noisy and unperceptive as to his lack of welcome as ever. "Hey, P.R, whatcha doing in the closet?"

"Denying my sexuality?" Puerto Rico deadpanned before being hauled to her feet and over America's shoulder. She gasped when her glasses slipped off of the bridge of her nose and onto the floor. "Oh no, Mona! Put me down before you-A muffled crunch sounded as a confused America stepped back, crushing the spectacles beneath his shoe.

"Heheh, oops?" He attempted before Puerto Rico proceeded to somehow drag the both of them onto the ground only to grab him in a rear-naked choke.

"You stupid asshole," she hissed. "I told you that next time you come to my house and break something I was going to yank your fucking head off and use it for football practice. Well prepare to taste cleats today, fucko." Puerto Rico snarled at the purpling America.

Before she could make good on her promise of decapitating him, Puerto Rico found herself face to face with England, who was standing in the empty space where her front door once stood. "What the bloody hell is going on here?" He demanded, heavy eyebrows drawing down as he surveyed the scene.

"Killing America," Puerto Rico said tonelessly, digging her foot into the aforementioned nation's back for balance as she continued to strangle him.

"Oh. Carry on then," England said, settling down on the sofa. His ass had barely made contact with the cushion before Canada wandered in, grasping his crotch and shifting his weight from foot to foot in an awkward manner.

"Uhm, hi," he ventured timidly. "Can I use you bathroom please, Puerto Rico? America refused to buy anything but coffee on the way here, and I have a weak bladder."

"Down the hall, second door on your right," Puerto Rico told him, momentarily releasing her hold around America's neck in order to point him in the right direction. That was all the opportunity that America needed; taking advantage of her brief lapse, he wormed his way out of her grasp, and, by virtue of size advantage, pushed Puerto Rico over and sat on her.

"Oh God, I think I just felt my spine poke into my spleen," she groaned. "Get your fat ass off of me."

"Look who's talking," an insulted-looking America retorted. "I'm not the one who gave the world Jenny on the Block!"

"What the-Yes you are. Jennifer Lopez was born in America, dumbass!"

"Yeah, but she's still Puerto Rican by race!"

"Puerto Rican isn't a race."

"Then what is it?!"

"An ethnicity."

"That's the same thing as a race!"

"No it isn't you asspisser. Why the hell are you here stinking up my house anyway? I sure as hell didn't invite you."

Just then, Mexico, who had been the next to arrive, cast her a sad look. "Man, cuz, that's harsh," he muttered, turning around and walking dejectedly out of the empty doorway.

Throwing America off of herself with a great effort, Puerto Rico pulled herself to her feet and pinched the bridge of her nose. "Not _you_," she sighed.

Upon hearing this, Mexico bounded inside of her house, throwing himself onto the couch so violently that England was sent rocketing up towards the ceiling, of which his head somehow managed to break through the plaster, causing him to become stuck and dangle helplessly between floors.

"How does something like this even _happen_?" He demanded furiously as he kicked his legs around in a desperate bid to free himself, his foot accidentally catching Mexico hard in the face.

"My fucking nose!" Mexico said thickly, bringing his hands up to cup his face. Blood leaked through his intertwined fingers and dripped with a soft pitter-patter onto Puerto Rico's brand new carpet.

Before she could address this latest turn of events, the tell-tale flush of a toilet sounded, followed by a bizarre gurgling sound. Everyone whose faces were still in the vicinity of the room cast one another a sidelong glance, and even England ceased his wild thrashing.

Puerto Rico opened her mouth to speak, only to be interrupted by the sight of Canada washing into the living room atop a veritable river of water like an old gum wrapper. "Yeah, uh...Sorry about your toilet," he said, rubbing the back of his head sheepishly.

As she stood in the ankle deep toilet water, a rubber ducky bobbing at her foot, Puerto Rico dropped her head and wondered if her day could possibly get any stupider. Her query was soon answered by America, who came floating by in a swim tube that he'd evidently found in one of her closets.

"Look at me; I'm a Cuban floating to Florida!" He declared, causing everyone to stare at him with varying degrees of irritation.

In a triumph of karma over distance, Puerto Rico's brother Cuba strode in from seemingly nowhere, yanked America to his feet, and punched him in the gut before waving at the other three occupants of the room and England's legs and strolling out of the doorway.

While America wheezed, clutching his abdomen, the distinctive screech of twisting metal sounded from outside of the house.

"What's going on out there?" England demanded, resuming his struggle to free himself from the ceiling.

Pushing the curtains aside, Puerto Rico squinted out of the window. "Cuba's totalling America's car," she said dispassionately. "So, who wants lunch?"

America raced outside, a look of the utmost horror on his face. "No, that's a rental!" He shrieked before tackling Cuba, who was just about to smash out his headlights with a baseball bat.

While the two muscular nations rolled around on her front lawn in a manner that was totally not homoerotic, Puerto Rico slowly dropped the curtains back into place before turning towards her unexpected guests. "So, about that lunch?"

After they'd managed to pry England from the ceiling in a short but detailed process that will go unexplained except for the fact that it involved a great deal of butter and a crowbar, the three males found themselves sitting at her dining room table after having been stuffed full of all manner of traditional foods.

As Puerto Rico continued to place down plate after plate before them while wearing a smile that was all teeth and no mirth, they quickly surmised that she was most likely attempting to have them eat themselves to death, or at least give them severe diarrhoea. Alas, her cooking was too good to resist, and, despite knowing that it was a trap, they continued to eat. Also, she was carrying a knife.

"Who wants torta de tres leches?" She trilled, kicking open the door separating the kitchen from the dining room whilst carrying the aforementioned cake, which looked large enough to feed an entire party of people, on a platter.

"Really, I'm full," Canada began, only for her to drop the cake onto the table, which groaned beneath the added weight.

"Oh no," Puerto Rico said, eyes glinting, "I _insist._"

"Honestly, I couldn't eat another bite," England added, gesturing towards his bloated abdomen, which was straining slightly around the waistband of his trousers.

Puerto Rico's expression turned hurt, which, combined with her large, wide-spaced eyes and pouting mouth, was enough to make even the most stalwart of grouches soften.

Forcing himself not to look at her, Mexico stared resolutely down at the tablecloth. "Sorry Puerto Rico," he sighed, "But I just can't go on. I mean-He stopped when the kitchen knife that had formerly been clutched in Puerto Rico's hand buried itself in the table up to the hilt, quivering.

"Eat the fucking cake," Puerto Rico, now holding a machete, said in a monotone.

England blinked. "And suddenly my appetite is back," he declared, reaching for the cake.

"Yeah, mine too," Canada said.

"Same here," Mexico added.

"Hey, you guys are having cake without me?!" A bruised and battered America demanded as he stormed into the dining room. Before anyone could respond, he snatched the cake up from the table and ran off with it.

"Uh…What the fuck was that?" Mexico asked.

"Exactly according to plan," Puerto Rico answered.

"Huh?"

"I was banking on the fact that he'd eventually overhear the word cake, come inside, and then run off with it. I figure a forty-eight ounce tres leches cake should give me ten or so minutes of peace and quiet."

"Eight," England suddenly piped up. Puerto Rico raised her eyebrows.

"Eight?"

"Exactly," England said, nodding. "I've seen him do it before; it takes America exactly eight minutes and seventeen seconds to eat cakes that size. It's like he's powered by a black hole," he finished, shuddering slightly at the memory.

"Damn it." Pulling out a chair, Puerto Rico sat down beside Canada and dropped her chin onto her hands. "All right, then, try and explain to me in eight minutes why exactly you all are here."

England folded his hands in front of himself. "Frankly, we've all been dragged along on another one of America's hare-brained schemes. You see, he's been going around collecting all of the people most likely to ignore his invitation if given it by post in order to personally invite us to his Halloween party," he explained.

Puerto Rico took a sip of her coffee. "I see. Please elaborate."

"Yes well, apparently we're the people most likely to ignore his invitations, hence why we're all here. He figured that you'd be the most violent dissenter, hence why you were last," England stated. "I must admit, America's being oddly thorough this year; normally he'd just send everyone a message en masse on Facebook."

Canada frowned. "Oh God, he must be planning something big and melodramatic," he said worriedly.

Mexico pushed himself away from the table. "Welp, that settles it. I'm getting out of here before that crazy motherfucker tries to take us all down to New York and keep us imprisoned in his condo until the party," he said.

"That's a bit extreme even for America," Canada pointed out before the room was engulfed in a strange green light. He squinted up at the ceiling, looking utterly bemused. "What the fuck?"

"Beam them up, Tony!" The four of them heard America shout before the light grew brighter and they felt themselves being dragged up into the air. One temporary loss of vision followed by the sensation of being squeezed into a cramped, wildly spinning tunnel later, and the four confused countries found themselves lying in an uncomfortable pile on the hardwood floor of America's mid-town Manhattan condominium.

"Oh for fuck's sake…"

"Must…break…America's kneecaps…"

"Why is it always me who lands on the bottom?"

"I'm so confused…"

Grinning, America stepped in front of them, arms spread wide in a welcoming gesture. "Enjoy your twelve-day stay at Chez Alfred!"

England rolled his eyes. "It's times like these that I wish seppuku had caught on in the West," he muttered.

"Fuck suicide," Mexico said furiously, "Let's just kill America!"

"Dude, no one's gonna hear us. We can say Alfred, Matthew, Arthur, Juan, and-

"Don't say it!" Puerto Rico snapped, launching herself at America, only to be thwarted by him simply putting his hand on her forehead and pushing her back, causing her to impotently flail her fists at him from roughly five and a half feet away.

"Lolita," Alfred said, as though he'd never been interrupted. "Why's it matter, anyway? Everyone already knows your name."

"Because no one has that name anymore; the connotations are too creepy," the unfortunately named Lolita retorted. "Why can't you just call me Lola?" She added.

Alfred shrugged. "I dunno. Lolita just sounds better, is all."

Arthur raised his eyebrows, a monumental task indeed. "It really doesn't have the connotation, though," he said. "You were named centuries before the Nabokov novel came out."

"Yeah, well, it doesn't change the fact that everyone else sees me as being named after a hebephile's wank dream," Lolita muttered.

Alfred laughed. "Haha, and the fact that you look like a fifteen-year-old school girl doesn't help, either," he added. "Now, who wants to see their costumes?" He asked out of the blue.

Juan glared at him. "Why the hell did you pick our costumes?"

"Because knowing you all, you'd put off buying them until the last minute just so you could weasel out of not coming to the party," America answered.

"…Damn it, he's right," Juan mumbled, kicking at one of the legs of the coffee table.

"So yeah, costumes," Alfred declared, dragging out a large cardboard box from out of the corner of the spacious living room. Pushing aside the flaps, he pulled out a grey waistcoat, a six button double-breasted tailcoat, creased black trousers, a black tie, and a pocket watch, which he unceremoniously tossed at Arthur, who caught them, looked annoyed.

"A butler costume? How very original," he deadpanned.

"A _Black _Butler costumes," Alfred corrected as he continued to rifle through the box.

"Most butler costumes are customarily black, yes."

"No, I mean you're going to be the Black Butler."

"…You're expecting me to go in black-face? My God that's racist."

"No, I mean the Black Butler from the show Black Butler, Iggy!"

"Oh."

Next, Alfred tossed Matthew a red-and-white striped long-sleeved shirt and a white pull-over hat with a red brim and matching red pom-pom on the top. "Uh, what's this supposed to be?"

"You're gonna be Where's Waldo, bro!" Alfred said excitedly. "I figured that if you want a repeat of all the attention you got last year, you'll definitely get it and then some while dressed as the guy that everyone wants to find."

Matthew shrugged. "Well, at least I've already got the jeans and glasses to go with it…"

"For the record, the name is actually Where's Wally," Arthur interjected. "I ought to know, seeing as how the thing was made in _my_ bloody country," he added when Alfred looked as though he might protest.

"Yeah well, here, he's called Where's Waldo, so suck on that," Alfred declared before pulling out a baggy polka-dotted jumpsuit, a hideous mask with fang-like teeth and a bulbous red nose, and a multi-hued afro wig.

As he stared at the costume that had been thrown to him, Juan actually looked enthusiastic. "Sweet, Killer Klown from Outer Space! I'm gonna just fuck with the kids heads all night long," he said gleefully. "Those little bastards won't be able to sleep without a nightlight for months."

"Told you I wouldn't disappoint," Alfred said proudly. "Think fast, Lita!" He shouted, tossing the last bundle of clothing at Lolita, who caught it with the top of her head.

Unfurling the wad of material, she shot him a thoroughly unimpressed look. "The fuck is this?" She asked, holding up a ruffled white peasant blouse, front-laced red bodice attached to a matching mockery of a skirt, and a white waist apron.

"It appears to be a tavern wench costume," Arthur said. "Well, a very…Abbreviated take on one, anyway," he amended upon catching sight of the lace-lined collar and white stockings that she'd dropped on the floor.

Alfred shrugged. "Hey, I wanna pull in some funds this year by having a cash bar, and tits and ass sell better than actual quality liquor. Oh yeah, that means you're manning the bar, Lita."

Lolita's left eye began to twitch. "Hey, Alfred?" She said in a feignedly calm voice.

"Sup, cuz?"

"Oh, I'm just giving you fair warning that I'm about to FUCK YOU A NEW FACE USING AN ICEPICK!" Lolita snarled.

"Aw, shit-

While Lolita hunted Alfred down throughout the two-floor flat, Matthew, Juan, and Arthur proceeded to raid Alfred's kitchen as payback for essentially kidnapping them.

"Sometimes I wonder how I'm related to him," Matthew said from around a mouthful of pretzels.

"I ask myself the same thing every day," Juan affirmed.

"Don't even get me started on that," Lolita said as she paused in her attempted murder in order to tie her shoe.

"You guys are mean," a panting Alfred said as he leaned against a wall for support.

"Yeah, yeah, keep running," Juan said boredly, tossing a crumpled napkin at him.

"_You're _the one who brought us here," Arthur pointed out.

Matthew nodded in agreement. "You really did bring this on yourself, Al."

Lolita's contribution to the discussion was to deliver a flying double-legged kick to Alfred's head, sending him flying down the length of the living room and smacking against the wall-length window, the panes of which trembled but didn't break.

"Plexiglas," Alfred explained when everyone raised their eyebrows before he slid down the length of the window with a squeegee-like sound.

"Ah."

"Also…_Wedgie time,_" Matthew declared in a deadly-serious voice before walking up to his brother and yanking his underwear up over his head.

"Oh God, my underwear's so far up my ass I can taste it…Why'd you do it, bro?" Alfred gasped as he attempted to pull his severely ridden up boxers out of his crack.

Matthew shrugged. "It amused me."

"Causing my balls to migrate up into my asscrack amuses you?"

"…Yes."

"That's fucked up. I'm starting to think you have issues, Matt."

"Oh, I do. Oh how I do…"

An awkward hush fell upon the room, which was mercifully broken by Juan, who leapt up from the couch. "Oh look, it's time for bed," he said, glancing down at a nonexistent watch on his left wrist. "Don't bother pointing me down, I know where the guest room you always stick me in is," he assured Alfred. "G'night folks, we'll finish this lovely discussion never," Juan declared before practically sprinting up the spiral staircase.

"I think I'll get some shut-eye as well," Arthur said, hurrying after him.

Staring from the two brothers, Lolita began to slowly back away towards the steps. "I too must go," she said before running after Arthur.

"So…"Alfred began.

"Night, Al," Matthew said cheerfully, turning around to follow after Lolita.

Once the sound of his footsteps ceased, Alfred also headed off to his room. "Yeah, definitely locking the door tonight…" He muttered to himself.


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note: I'm still going. Why?! Why am I still writing this?!**

_The following morning…_

Arthur woke up with a pounding headache and a strange taste in his mouth that he could only describe as yellow. Rolling over with a groan, he lay on the bed and stared up at the ceiling for several minutes while he attempted to collect his wits.

"All right," he muttered. "Angry Birds themed bedroom. Stink of nacho cheese in the air." Arthur reached up with a tentative hand to touch the top of his head, which he discovered had a lump the size of a goose egg welling up on it. "A possible concussion…Yes, I'm definitely at Alfred's. Fuck my life and call her Debbie."

Sighing, Arthur attempted to push himself off of the mattress only to be met with a sudden wave of dizziness upon lifting his head. He grit his teeth. "Let's try this again," Arthur muttered, and, with a great effort, managed to roll off the bed and onto his feet. "Okay, I'm standing." He nodded to himself. "Good, good…Now to just take one step forward and-

He'd barely lifted one leaden foot when another wave of dizziness, more intense than the first, washed over him, sending him sprawling face down onto the floor. "Ugh, what the bloody hell happened last night?" Arthur grimaced when a quick glance down at himself revealed that he was clad only in his underwear, which just so happened to be, embarrassingly enough, a pair of boxers with a decorative pattern of Peter Pan's Tinkerbell. "Okay, maybe I'd rather not know," he conceded.

His reverie was interrupted by Alfred bursting into the room, flinging open the door so hard that it not only rebounded off of the wall but left a sizeable hole in it as well. "C'mon Iggy, it's time for breakfast! Get your ass downstairs or else no Captain Crunch for you!"

Groaning, Arthur grabbed the comforter from off of the bed and pulled it over his head. "Go away you stupid wanker," he mumbled, burying his face into the carpeting. "You can take your Captain bloody Crunch and cram it up your prick hole for all I care…"

Alfred, however, was undeterred. "C'mon, up and at 'em!" He shouted, causing Arthur's already aching head to feel as though it were giving birth to a melon. In just ten long strides, he'd crossed the length of the room, snatched the comforter off of Arthur, and flung open the drapes, causing the sun's rays to concentrate off of the window panes to a veritable laser which immediately proceeded to burn Arthur's forehead.

While Arthur rolled around in an attempt to put the flames out, Alfred pumped his fist. "Fuck yeah, my magnifying glass windows work!" He cheered.

Dunking the leftover contents of the glass of water standing on the night table onto his head, Arthur affixed the taller man with a look so full of hate that protest marches would later be held on the remains of Alfred's face. "Who the fuck _does _something like that?"

"This guy," Alfred said proudly, pointing his thumbs at his chest.

Arthur raised a finger in the air as though he were about to make a profound statement, then put it back down, evidently thinking better of attempting to reason with Alfred. "Yes, indeed," he agreed. "Only you would think to do something so obnoxious and unnecessary."

Alfred simply shrugged. "You're just jealous because you didn't think of it first."

"Yes, whatever would I do without magnifying glass windows? My life, it is empty and will remain so until I fill its void…With magnifying glass windows," Arthur replied in a monotone. "On another note, did I ever perhaps hold your head beneath the tub water for too long when you were a baby? I'd just like an explanation as to some of your…Eccentricities."

Shaking his head as though to clear it, Alfred blinked confusedly at him, as though he weren't quite sure how Arthur had gotten there. "What was that? I kinda just started tuning you out after a while. No offense, but you're really fucking boring."

"And there goes the answer to my question," Arthur said dryly.

"Okay, cool. Anyway, come down to breakfast or you won't get any. Matt's really going apeshit on the pancakes. I think he's still got a case of the munchies from last night," Alfred added, laughing.

Arthur furrowed his brow. "Wait, we were smoking marijuana?"

Alfred folded his arms behind his head. "Oh yeah. And then some. The five of us went through a few pounds of the stuff in here before we went outside and hot-boxed the car on the way to the liquor store. Then, we drank our way through a few dozen bottles of whiskey before hitting up a strip club." He laughed some more. "Speaking of which, you might wanna check your jacket pocket."

"Wait, what-Arthur began, but Alfred was already heading out of the door.

"See ya downstairs, Tinkerballs," he said as he ambled out into the hall and began pounding down the steps.

"Dumbarse," Arthur muttered. Turning to his jacket, which was slung over a chair, he sighed and began to rummage through its pocket. Pulling out a scrap of paper with a very suspicious stain smudged on its corner, he unfurled it and read "For a good dirty time, call 555-493-1293." Arthur raised his eyebrows. "What. The. _Fuck_?" Then, furtively looking from left to right to make certain that no one was watching, he carefully refolded the note and slipped it back into his pocket.

When he finally stumbled into the kitchen, still clad in only his boxers, Arthur noticed that everyone looked like utter shit. Matthew's eyes were wide and bloodshot as he shoveled bite after bite of pancakes and bacon into his mouth, looking as though he weren't even tasting it. Juan, who was only semi-conscious, teetered back and forth several times in his seat before falling face forward into his cereal bowl with a grunt. Lolita, who was sitting with her knees pulled up to her chest had dark circles beneath her eyes and looked decidedly twitchy. On closer inspection, Arthur noticed that Alfred, who was attempting to stick a grapefruit into the toaster, was in fact trouserless and had the right lens of his glasses missing. _Odd how I didn't notice that earlier…_

Deciding that greetings were in fact not in order, Arthur pulled out a chair as quietly as possible, dropped heavily onto it, placed his head onto his folded arms , and wished that the room would stop spinning.

The room was silent but for the sound of Matthew's fork and knife scraping against his plate, and Arthur found himself about to drift off to sleep just like Juan when the whining blare of the smoke alarm began to sound.

"_Fire, fire,"_ a mechanical voice chanted. "_Fire, fire_._"_

Shocked into sobriety, Arthur jumped up from his seat just in time to the flames licking down the side of the toaster, onto the counter, and finally began creeping up the cabinet doors.

"Oh, COME ON!" Alfred shouted as he began to gather tap water from the running sink into his cupped hands in order to pour onto the fire. The flames hissed and fizzled momentarily before flaring up higher than ever. If it hadn't seemed so incredulous, all those present could have sworn that the fire gathered itself up into the shape of a middle finger.

"Wha-Whozat?" Juan said groggily as he pulled his face out of the bowl, bits of Lucky Charms hanging from his forehead. Then his eyes widened to the size of dinner plates. "Holy shit, fire! Quick, every man for themselves," he cried, shoving himself away from the table and running out of the door. A few seconds later, he returned in order to grab his bowl and spoon. "Almost forgot these…"

Matthew, who obviously hadn't quite regained his faculties from the previous night's madness, began to swipe at the fire with a broom, only for the bristles to burst into flame at well. "Maybe not my best idea," he decided as he dipped the broom into the sink.

"Not quite, lad," Arthur admitted as he attempted to break the emergency case of the fire extinguisher with a nine-iron that he'd found in the refrigerator, of all places. Seeing that he'd only managed to cause a small, spider web-like crack to form, he frowned. "Damn it, I need something harder…Alfred, get over here!"

"Huh?" Was all Alfred managed to say before Arthur grabbed him by the collar and shoved his head into the case. Ignoring the glass slivers gathered around his bare feet, Arthur snatched up the fire extinguisher, dragged it over to the fire, pulled back the pin, aimed the nozzle at the fire, which was now clawing at nearly the ceiling, and squeezed the lever.

Unfortunately, he wasn't prepared for the force with which the firefighting agent would be expelled, and, when he attempted to sweep the stream of foam from side to side, Arthur found himself launched into the air from the pressure and spraying the foam in every which direction.

"Why the hell do _you _get to have all of the fun?" A completely unharmed Alfred demanded before grabbing Arthur's ankle in order to drag him down. When Arthur hit the ground with a thud, Alfred snatched up the fire extinguisher and began to repeatedly squeeze the lever, only for nothing but a sad little drizzle to seep out. "Aww, man!"

Rolling his eyes, Arthur pulled himself to his feet in order to survey the damage. Besides the fact that the kitchen wall and several of the cabinets were blackened and the paint on the ceiling blistered, the room was mostly unharmed. As for its occupants, Matthew and Juan were standing beside him, looking more annoyed than anything at the interruption to their breakfast and Lolita was…Nowhere to be found.

"We've lost the little one," Arthur sighed. "Why is it always the little one that winds up lost?"

Alfred looked up from his desperate attempt at extinguisher-induced flight. "Because small things and people are easier to lose, duh," he said.

"Yes, well-

"What'd I miss?" Lolita asked, strolling into the room looking freshly washed and groomed and carrying a laptop underneath her right arm.

"Just a fire," Juan said casually.

"Cool," Lolita answered, sitting down at the table and placing the laptop in front of her. "What?" She demanded when the other three continued to look at her.

"Where were you all this time?" Matthew asked, scratching his head.

"Shower." There was the soft clicking of computer strokes before Lolita looked up again. "_Yes?" _

"You don't wanna hear about our crazy adventure?" Alfred asked.

"No, not really." Pushing herself away from the table, Lolita tucked her laptop beneath her arm once more. "I must go now," she said blankly, and walked out of the kitchen.

Alfred narrowed his eyes as he watched the door shut after his fellow North American. "She's hiding something…" Without warning, he pulled open a cutlery drawer, took a laptop out of it, and pressed the power button.

"What the-Do you have a laptop hidden in every drawer or something?" Arthur asked him.

"Maybe," Alfred said distractedly as he began to type. Eyes wide, he leapt back from the screen as though it had burned him. "I FUCKING KNEW IT!"

"Knew what?" Matthew asked.

"LITA FRAPED MY FACEBOOK PROFILE!"

Snickering, Juan pushed Alfred aside in order to get a better look. "_Hah. _Apparently, your sexuality is necrosexual, your interests involve masturbating into sock puppets and calling your mother's name during sex and your profile picture is now a photograph from the inside of a colonoscopy."

Matthew shook his head. "This Facebook war is _still _going on?"

"Hey man, you're just pissed off because you gave up last week," Alfred muttered as he furiously worked to bring his Facebook profile back to normal.

"Yeah well, I guess there's only so many times that I can change your name to Big Gay Al before the whole thing starts to lose its charm," Matthew said dryly.

"Bloodyteens," Arthur muttered.

"Yeah, well, you're _old_, Grouchy McPubeBrows," Alfred countered.

Arthur leveled a dirty look at him before slapping him upside the head so that Alfred's face smacked into the computer screen. "Respect your elders."


End file.
